Ana on the Edge
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Andrew Sass
Cover art © 2020 by Ellen Shi. Cover design by Angelie Yap.
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sass, A. J., author.
Title: Ana on the edge / by A. J. Sass.
Description: First edition. | New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: Twelve-year-old figure skater Ana strives to win competitions while learning about gender identity—Ana’s own and that of a new friend—and how to navigate the best path forward.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019056117 | ISBN 9780316458610 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316458634 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316458641 (ebook other)
Subjects: CYAC: Ice skating—Fiction. | Gender identity—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S26476 An 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056117
ISBNs: 978-0-316-45861-0 (hardcover), 978-0-316-45863-4 (ebook)
E3-20200911-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
January Breathe In
June Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
July Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
August Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Breathe Out
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To anyone who’s ever answered “no” when asked, “Are you a boy or a girl?”—or even just thought it silently to yourself.
I see you.
JANUARY
Breathe In
I stand alone at center ice. Around me, the audience is quiet. Seven judges sit in front of me, fourteen eyes ready to follow my every move.
Breathe in, breathe out. Shoulders down.
Black, glossy fabric encases my white skates, part of my one-piece costume. I look down at the National Championships logo underneath layers of ice. Knots unfurl in my stomach and flutter upward, even though I just chewed a ginger tab to settle my nerves.
The opening notes of my music drum rhythmic and low. I aim a smile at the judges before gliding forward, extending one leg behind me in a quick arabesque. I push thoughts of the large crowd in the stands, of my mom sitting among them, of how this is my first-ever Nationals, out of my head. It’s time to focus.
My step sequence begins. I carve deep edges and quick, controlled turns in a winding, S-shaped pattern.
I catch sight of my coach, Alex, by the boards. His eyes bore into me as I turn into my first jump, a simple double flip. It’s not the highest-scoring element I’m capable of, but it’s a great way to get my feet under me at the start of my program.
It also comes right before the tricky triple toe loop.
I take a steadying breath, then tap my toe pick into the ice for my double flip. One, two rotations, and I land strong, back arched.
I lift my arms as the music builds. There’s no time to get excited yet.
Everything comes down to this next jump: the triple toe loop.
Turn, bend, tap. I recite the toe loop’s takeoff technique in my head, then turn backward, preparing to spring off the ice. Once I’m airborne, muscle memory will have to get me through the rest.
My left leg reaches behind me, blade tapping. I launch into the air and snap my ankles together, arms crossed tight over my chest.
The audience cheers. Relief floods through me, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. It vanishes a second later as I twist into my next combination spin.
To the untrained eye, I’m just an effortless blur of glossy black fabric, gold-and-red chiffon fluttering from my costume. But I know each crisp position comes from years of repetition in private lessons with Alex, lessons that Mom worked long hours to pay for.
Shoulders relaxing, I exit my spin to more clapping. My smile is less rehearsed, more genuine. The ice feels more like home now, instead of slippery and foreign.
I lean on a deep edge and tap my toe pick into the ice for my three-jump combo. Launch and land, launch and land. Repeat again. It’s over in a matter of seconds, my movements smooth and fast.
Out here, all my problems vanish. The judges seem to disappear, and I can no longer hear the crowd roar. The world falls away once I get into character. My steps perfectly match the music.
I land two more jumps, right on the beat of my music, then finish with a crowd-pleasing spin. My short hair whips against my cheeks as I grab my skate blade, lifting my foot high behind me in a vertical split. I end with a flourish as the audience rises in a standing ovation.
I bow to the judges, then exit the ice. Warmth forms in my stomach and spreads outward as Alex uncrosses his arms and reaches out for a quick hug. He looked stiff during my performance, shoulders tense under the gray business suit he wore especially for this event. Not anymore.
We head to the Kiss and Cry seating area, where skaters receive their scores. The cameras catch all the drama here, every tiny reaction recorded. I’m still breathing hard by the time we sit down, but I wave at a nearby camera livestreaming the event.
In just a few seconds, I’ll know how I placed.
Alex nudges me and offers a water bottle. I take a sip as a volunteer hands me flowers and stuffed animals that members of the audience threw onto the ice. I’ve seen this happen for famous skaters, but it’s the first time any
one besides Mom has thrown things for me.
“Now the score for Miss Ana-Marie Jin’s free-skate program.” I sit up straighter, trying to ignore a prickle of discomfort. “Ana-Marie has earned a total of sixty-eight point five eight.”
The steady thrum in my chest skips a beat. I was the last skater who performed today, and that’s higher than any of the scores I overheard while I warmed up. I turn to Alex, who squeezes my arm. His gaze stays on the results screen. It’ll refresh soon. Until then, nothing’s official.
I look up to the stands and spot Mom. Unlike others around her, she isn’t clapping. Her eyes are fixed on the huge digital scoreboard looming over the ice. I hold my breath and keep watching her. I want this win for her as much as I want it for myself.
A roar of approval fills the rink and Mom’s eyes widen. She stands with the rest of the crowd, hands flying to her mouth. My gaze flickers to the final results.
ANA-MARIE JIN: 68.58—1ST
I jump out of my seat as Alex rises and pulls me into another hug. I hug him back, bouncing in his arms. All those months of intense training, of sore muscles and hard falls, were worth it to get to this moment. My heart’s racing again, but this time it has wings. I’m soaring.
I look back to the stands and find Mom. I blink fast, and she smiles at me like she knows I’m trying to hold back tears, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
The announcer speaks again, and Alex catches me by the elbow. “Medal ceremony.” He nods toward the ice where a group of workers is setting up a podium.
We make it to the ice by the time the bronze medalist is announced. Silver comes next, her program music playing softly in the background as she takes the ice and curtsies to the crowd.
“Soak this all up. Enjoy every second.” Alex pats my shoulder. “Tomorrow we’ll fly home and get you back on your regular training schedule. Think you can top this next season?”
My program music plays, low at first, then strong and brassy. The other medalists already stand on the podium in sparkling dresses. The top spot is empty, waiting for me.
The announcer calls my name. I step onto the ice, then turn back to Alex. I give him a quick thumbs-up before gliding off to accept my gold medal.
“Definitely.”
JUNE
Chapter One
Sunlight glimmers across the ice through the San Francisco rink’s floor-to-ceiling windows. I squint, trying to find my best friend, Tamar. She’s on the far side of the rink, working on spiral positions, just like I’m supposed to be doing. I scan the ice, making sure Alex is nowhere in sight, then wave her over. She skids to a scratchy stop in front of me, brown curls bouncing in her loose ponytail.
Her skin is usually pale, but right now it’s flushed pink from the cold rink air. She twirls her index finger, brows raised. “You first.”
“I’m always first,” I shoot back, but Tamar doesn’t budge.
We’re supposed to be practicing Moves in the Field—exercises that focus on power, body alignment, and edge control—but there’s no one around to call us out for goofing off. Also, I never back down from a challenge. Swizzling a few feet away from Tamar to make sure my sharp blades don’t nick her, I raise both arms. I plant one toe in the ice, reach down, and perform a perfect cartwheel. Tamar applauds, and I bow like I’ve just skated my winning program at Nationals.
“Ana!” Alex calls.
I freeze mid-bow. Tamar’s eyes dart past me, up to Alex in the viewing stands. He’s right next to my mom.
Alex beckons to me. I look at Tamar for help, but she’s zipped away, back to her corner of the rink.
I grab my stuff and slide on my blade guards at the edge of the ice, then open my phone to the calendar app Mom and I share. There’s nothing about her visiting the rink over lunch today. She should definitely still be at work.
I climb the metal steps up to the stands. Mom pats the seat next to her and I sit down, waiting for her or Alex to lecture me about my cartwheel. I fiddle with my hair, trying to tuck it behind my ear. The strands are a little too short to stay put.
Shoulders tense, I glance toward the ice, but Tamar’s focused on twizzles. They’re supposed to look like mini–traveling spins, and most of hers do—until the last set. She hits her toe picks and loses her balance.
Alex clears his throat to get my attention. “Your mom and I wanted to discuss some things now that the new season is fast approaching. You’ve been showing progress all spring during the off-season, learning harder jumps and getting more consistent. And of course, we’re both proud of how you performed at Nationals a few months ago.”
Relaxing a little, I look between them. It doesn’t seem like I’m going to get in trouble for my cartwheel after all.
“You’ll definitely be moving up a level next season,” Alex continues. “You’ve got the skills to be competitive as an Intermediate lady.”
Competition announcers always call Juvenile skaters boys and girls, then it switches to ladies and men starting at Intermediate. I already knew this, but it still sounds weird.
“Even so, this will be a big leap for you. You only needed a free-skate program in Juvenile, but Intermediate also requires a short program, with very specific jump and spin requirements.”
I nod to show I’m still following along.
“The plan is to convert your Juvenile free skate to an Intermediate short program. It’s a real showstopper the way you perform it.”
My chest swells at the thought of performing my program in front of a huge crowd again, and I share a look with Mom. The corners of her eyes crinkle, just like at Nationals.
“You’re also going to work with a choreographer to create an Intermediate free-skate program so it has a different feel and layout. The judges will want to see your range as a performer.”
My eyes widen. Alex has always been the one to choose my programs and map out where the steps, jumps, and spins will go. But all the best skaters have choreographers.
“Lastly, we’ve decided to move your home base to Oakland. Their management team has been asking me to coach there on a more full-time basis for quite some time, as you know.”
Mom nods.
“Plus, our offer was just accepted on a house in Temescal.”
“That’s a great neighborhood,” Mom says. “I know you and Myles have been searching for a new house for a while. Congratulations.”
“Congratulations,” I echo.
“Thanks.” Alex turns to me. “I’ll still be your main coach. There are changes going into effect next season that we’ll need to keep on top of. For example, in the past, medaling first at Regionals and then at Sectionals would qualify you to compete at Nationals—but starting this season, Nationals has been cut for all but the highest levels. Instead, top Intermediate skaters will attend a training camp to build skills and determine eligibility for international competitions down the road.”
No more Nationals? I listen carefully, trying to memorize as much of this new information as possible.
“Both your mom and I want to make sure you have room to grow. Oakland has two rinks. No more competing for ice with the hockey teams, which should give you plenty of practice time to get your skills even more consistent for Intermediate. Your mom has also signed you up for some great off-ice stretching and dance classes.”
“For real?” I look at Mom. She nods again, and I can hardly believe it.
“For real,” Alex confirms. “You’ll start your new training schedule next week. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds great. Like a dream come true, actually.” Beaming, I glance back toward the ice, first to the floor-to-ceiling windows, then to where Tamar’s practicing twizzles across a patch of sunlit ice. My hands tingle as I imagine telling her everything.
“I’m glad you’re excited.” Alex stands and looks down at me, one eyebrow arched as his expression gets serious. “Now, back to work on your Moves in the Field. No more cartwheels. Last time I checked, you were a figure skater, not a gymnast.”
br /> Chapter Two
Tamar and I sit side by side on my bunk bed as the closing credits from The Mighty Ducks 2 play from her iPad. On the opposite end of our studio apartment, Mom sits at the kitchen table with her work laptop.
Tamar rests her head on my shoulder and sighs. “The rink is going to be so boring without you and Alex.”
“He’ll still be around for your synchro practices.”
I feel her nod. “For now, I guess. I’m having a tryout lesson with a coach he recommended tomorrow, too. Still, it’s going to be weird without you.”
“At least there’s less chance you’ll get in trouble for on-ice cartwheels?”
“Like I can even do them that well.” She laughs and leans past me to grab her iPad off its perch on my pillow. “I’m not multitalented like my BFF, the last national Juvenile champion in the history of ever.”
I roll my eyes. “There’ll still be national champions at Junior and Senior. I’ll just be trying to qualify for the national training camp at Intermediate instead.”
Tamar gestures to the wall, pointing at my gold medal. It hangs right beside a Michelle Kwan poster so old it’s curling at its yellowed corners. Michelle was the first Chinese American I ever saw skate, so she’ll always be my favorite.
“Last. Ever. Juvenile. Champion.”
Shaking my head, I can’t help smiling.
“But the camp does sound cool,” Tamar says as she scrolls through iPad notifications.
“Yeah. If I skate well there, I could get picked to compete internationally as a Novice-level skater the season after.”
At this, Tamar looks up. “Okay, that would be awesome.”
“Definitely awesome.”
All I’ve wanted since I started skating is to represent the United States in competitions around the world.
Tamar checks her texts. “Mom’s downstairs.” She scooches toward the ladder at the edge of my bed as I twist around to glance at my Nationals medal. It never gets old to look at. That’s when I notice the photo missing from its spot behind my poster.